


Slow It Down

by monroeslittle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroeslittle/pseuds/monroeslittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was strong, making her eyes water, and that was when she noticed that she’d drawn attention from a guy three stools down. “It tastes like gasoline with vague cranberry essence,” she explained, and his lips quirked up in amusement. “I’m Clarke,” she added.</p><p>"Bellamy," he said.</p><p>modern AU, a one-night stands results in a little surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow It Down

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is based on a tumblr prompt, and it was supposed to be just a short(er), unpolished drabble on tumblr, but it turned into this monster. It remains unpolished, but I can't bear to look at it any longer! The prompt was: "Unplanned pregnancy after a one night stand with Clarke as an upper-class girl letting her hair down and Bellamy as the hot yet responsible blue-collar worker." Thanks, Jessa!
> 
> Title/lyrics are from the Goo Goo Dolls's "Slow It Down." :)

_Can we just let go,_  
_Of what we can't control._  
_And if the world should spin too fast,_  
_I'll slow it down for you._

\---

She left the party early, citing that she needed to work on a paper for class this weekend, and she wanted to get a solid night’s sleep.  
  
“Such a diligent student,” Thelonious said, chuckling.  
  
Her mother wasn’t impressed, and she gave Clarke _that_ look. Her favorite, patented look, telling Clarke wordlessly that _I’m smiling right now, but I want you to know that I’m disappointed in you, and we’re going to talk about it when there aren’t people to impress_.  
  
She didn’t care what her mother thought.  
  
She made her exit when her father started to sing her praises to Thelonious since, you know, Thelonious asked for it, giving him an opening like that. The cold bit into her skin as soon as she left the museum, and she fumbled to button her coat while she texted Alex.  
  
“Do you have a ticket, ma’am?” The valet blinked politely at her.  
  
She smiled. “No, no. Thank you, but I was dropped off. My driver’s on his way.”  
  
He nodded, and it was quiet. She’d warned Alex that she needed him on call; there was no way that she was going to stay at this party long. Of course, she doubted he’d expected her to want to leave before nine o’clock. _She_ hadn’t expected to leave that early.  
  
She’d underestimated her mother, though. She always did.  
  
Alex pulled the car up, and Clarke opened the door for herself before he was able to hop from the car. “Home, please,” she told him. She sighed, pulling at the pins in her hair. Her scalp was on fire. “Thanks for coming fast,” she added. “I owe you big time for this.”  
  
“Happy to,” Alex replied. “It’s my job.”  
  
The drive wasn’t far, but Clarke was desperate to be in her bed, and it seemed to take years to get to her apartment.  
  
But once she was there at last, she didn’t want to be.  
  
She kicked off her heels, shimmied from her dress, and crawled into bed, only to blink at the ceiling. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to forget what Dr. Replogol told her. She wanted to forget about her mother, and school, and how this was an election year, and Thelonious was on the campaign trail, which meant event after event like tonight’s until November, and attendance was going to be mandatory for Clarke.  
  
“It’s important that our family shows our support for Theo,” her mother said, which was code for _how do you expect to meet a suitable husband unless you attend the functions that they attend, and allow me to introduce you to them like the prize goat that you are?_  
  
The voice in her head sounded a lot like Raven, and that made Clarke smile.  
  
She wanted to hang out with Raven.  
  
Go to a bar, and drink, giggle, and bitch liked they used to in college. It was _exactly_ what Clarke needed. The problem, of course, was that Raven was backpacking in South American right now, and, well, Raven was really the only cool, good female friend that Clarke had.  
  
Clarke stewed in her misery for a minute.  
  
But, you know, she didn’t need Raven to go to a bar. She could go on her own.  
  
It could be fun. It _would_ be fun. She’d find a nice, hot guy to flit with. He’d buy her a drink, and it’d be like in a movie. She rolled her eyes at herself as soon as that thought popped into her head, but she didn’t change her mind. She rolled off the bed, found jeans to put on, and slipped on the top that Raven had given her for her birthday last year. It was a slinky, glittery one; the card that accompanied it had read _it’s time you recognize that you have boobs, and they are really awesome boobs that need to be loved._  
  
Clarke put her hair up, gave herself a short pep talk, and left to find a bar.  
  
But it was early Friday night, which meant that downtown was crazy, and Clarke wasn’t good at that whole parking thing. She drove across town until nice, legitimate parking lots started to crop up alongside the buildings, and she pulled into one next to the first small bar that she saw. She liked the blue, twinkling Christmas lights in the window.  
  
Christmas ended a month ago, but it made the place seem cheery.  
  
It wasn’t crowded, but there were people scattered in the booths, watching a game on the television, and it smelled like wood, and beer, and _fun_.  
  
She marched up to the bar, scooting onto a stool before she beamed at the bartender.  
  
“What can I get you?” he asked. His eyes were on the TV.  
  
“I don’t know.” She glanced at the beers on tap. She didn’t recognize a single one. She was in the mood for something fruity, maybe. Did bars like this do fruity girl drinks? “What’s good?” she asked.  
  
The bartender tore his eyes from the TV to blink at her.  
  
It was clear he wasn’t going to offer a suggestion. “Um, do you—do you know how to make a Peach Blossom?” It was the first stupid drink that popped into her head.  
  
“No,” he said.  
  
“Okay, um. How about a vodka cranberry?” she asked. That was easy, right?  
  
He grunted at her, made the drink, and slid it to her before he disappeared down the bar.  
  
It was strong, making her eyes water, and that was when she noticed that she’d drawn attention from a guy three stools down. “It tastes like gasoline with vague cranberry essence,” she explained, and his lips quirked up in amusement. “I’m Clarke,” she added.  
  
He was cute with his dark curly hair, and that dimple in his chin.  
  
He moved to sit in the stool next to her, and she amended her assessment. He was _hot_ : dark eyes, broad shoulders, and this slow, slow smile that made her toes curl.  
  
“Bellamy,” he said.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Bellamy,” she replied.  
  
She didn’t know what to say after that. She wasn’t really an expert at this. “Okay, I’m not good at this,” she said. It couldn’t hurt to be honest, right? “This is the first time I’ve gone to a bar without my friends. It’s weird. I mean, what’s there to do in a bar if you don’t have your friends with you?”  
  
“Drink,” Bellamy said.  
  
She gave him a look, and he chuckled. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”  
  
“Okay, okay.” He grinned. “Here’s an idea. How about you make a friend, and play darts with him?” He tilted his head to nod at the dartboard in the back.  
  
This night was such a great idea.  
  
“I’m game to give that a try,” she declared, deciding to down her drink before she hopped off her stool. It made her cough, _naturally_ , but that was okay, too, because Bellamy touched a hand to her shoulder; her heart jumped at the heat of his hand through her shirt.  
  
“Breathe, Princess,” he told her.  
  
“I’m fine,” she panted, waving him off, and his laughter was a deep, delicious rumble.  
  
But it wasn’t until they’d played three rounds of darts, she’d explained to him why Ross from _Friends_ was really a dick, and he’d gotten the grumpy old bartender to make her a drink that tasted like cinnamon apple something that she decided she wanted to sleep with him.  
  
“Looks like somebody’s about to lose for the fourth time in a row,” Bellamy teased.  
  
Clarke rolled her shoulders. “Nope. I’ve been warming up, and now I’m going to kick your butt. But, first, let’s up the stakes. My competitive side needs motivation.” She narrowed her eyes at him, making him chuckle. “If I win, you have to buy me a drink.”  
  
“I bought you the drink in your hand,” he said.  
  
“Then you have to buy me _another_ drink, and shout loudly to everyone in this bar that Clarke rocks at darts, and you suck.”  
  
He smirked. “What if I win?” he asked. “What do I get?”  
  
“Obviously, you get to kiss me,” she replied.  
  
His eyes were bright with amusement, but he grinned that slow, slow smile. “Deal.”  
  
Clarke lost.  
  
She raised an eyebrow at Bellamy, and he reached for his scotch, keeping his gaze on her while he downed it. He set down the empty glass, and she bit her lip when he started towards her, when he backed her into the wall. She touched his shoulders, ran her hands down his arms greedily. He’d taken off his coat since they’d started to talk, and his arms, _God_ , his arms.  
  
He pinned her into place with his hips, and kissed her.  
  
It was a hot, open-mouthed kiss that left her shaky in his arms, digging her fingers into his shoulders while she gasped for breath when he started to press kisses to her throat.  
  
“My place, or yours?” she panted.  
  
His breath was hot on her neck. “I have a roommate,” he said, and sucked on her pulse.  
  
She arched her neck, banging her head against the wall. “I don’t. My place. Let’s go. _Now_.” She sank her fingers into his hair, tugging, and he lifted his head to kiss her quickly on the mouth before he stepped away, and she came with him, taking his hand.  
  
It turned out that he’d walked to the bar, but Clarke didn’t want to drive.  
  
They took a cab, making out for a minute before his hand snaked between her legs, and Clarke pressed her face into his neck when he started to rub her over her jeans. But he drew his hand up to squeeze her breast, abandoning his job, and she couldn’t help it; she threw her leg over his, rubbing herself off against his thigh.  
  
He groaned into her temple. “How drunk are you right now?”  
  
“Not that drunk,” she murmured.  
  
“Thank fucking God,” he said, and he palmed her ass.  
  
Her last real, coherent thought was to give the driver another twenty dollars before they tumbled from his cab; he deserved a really big tip for what he’d just put up with.  
  
They stumbled into her building, and made it to the elevator; he backed her into the shiny mirrored wall, sliding his hands into her hair to tilt her head up, to kiss her, and she pushed her hands under his shirt to dig her fingers into the soft, warm skin of his back. The elevator reached her floor, dinging politely at them before the doors slid open. Clarke broke into laughter when the doors to the elevator started to shut again after a moment.  
  
Bellamy stopped them, and they tumbled into the hallway, into her apartment.  
  
They got their clothes off before they reached her bed.  
  
Clarke straddled his hips, leaning over him to kiss him while he rolled on the condom. His hands found her breasts as soon as the condom was on, and she sank onto him. She’d never fucked anyone like this before: fast and sloppy, laughing, groping, cursing at him when she liked it, and when she didn’t, bucking her hips up into his desperately when he rolled them over, and the bed thumped against the wall with his every hard, fast thrust into her.  
  
She was boneless on the bed after, and she might’ve fallen asleep for a minute.  
  
But she needed to pee, and she stumbled to the bathroom. She was sore, and sleepy, and she smiled to herself while she peed. Bellamy was motionless in her bed when she left it, and she saw he hadn’t moved an inch when she returned. His breathing was heavy. She crawled under the covers, pulling them up over them both.  
  
\---  
  
He was gone when she woke up in the morning. It was already past ten, which was later than she liked to sleep; it usually felt like she was wasting the day. But she was in the mood to be lazy, and she rolled over, pulling the covers up to tuck under her chin, and listened sleepily to be certain that he wasn't in the bathroom, or in the kitchen. He wasn't.  
  
But she was certain he'd left a note, and she drifted off.  
  
Two hours later, and she padded through her apartment in her slippers, looking for a note that wasn't there.  
  
She swallowed her disappointment. He seemed like a guy who'd leave a note, and, okay, it made her feel a little bad that he didn't. She liked him, would've called him, would've loved to go on a date wit him, and repeat last night, too. But it looked like he'd felt differently, and that was that. It'd been a one-time thing. She wasn't going to dwell on it.  
  
She showered, e-mailed Raven about the night, and had Alex drive her to pick up her car. She got on with her day.  
  
The month that followed was dreary the way that February liked to be, but at least it went quickly. She focused on school, attended three different fundraisers with her parents, and begged off two. She went on a date, too, with a guy in her program. It was boring, but she got points for effort.  
  
It wasn’t until March that she realized she was pregnant.  
  
She took four pregnancy tests to be absolutely, one hundred percent certain, and she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain. She was pregnant. She tried to distract herself for an afternoon with several over-dramatic  _Grey's_ _Anatomy_ episodes, weeping into her popcorn until she passed out on the couch at eight.  
  
What the hell was she going to do?  
  
She didn’t have time for this, couldn’t _begin_ to deal with it.  
  
She wanted to talk to somebody, but there was nobody to talk to. Raven was gone, she hadn't been that close with Lilly in years, and her friends in her program weren't the friends you talk to when you're accidentally pregnant from a random one-night stand.  
  
Her stomach turned when she thought about how her parents were going to react.  
  
But they might not have to know.  
  
If she didn't keep it, they wouldn't have to know. Did she want to keep it?  
  
She thought about Glass.  
  
If she kept it, her parents were going to _have_ to know, and they’d probably want her to marry the father. After all, it was the proper thing to do, the closest thing to a fix after you’d ruined your life with an unplanned, out-of-wedlock pregnancy. _Marriage_. No way.  
  
Where did that leave her?  
  
She needed to contact Bellamy. That was the first step. But she didn’t know how.  
  
She didn't have his number, didn't know where he worked, didn't know his _last name_ , and it left her one extremely unappealing option: go back to that bar, and hope he was a regular. She didn’t have a choice.  
  
\---  
  
She was in the lab way past late on Friday, but she knew she couldn't put it off another week. She grabbed M&Ms from the vending machine, and drove to the bar in her scrubs. It was like she drove back in time: there were people talking quietly in the booths, watching the game on the TV, and the grumpy old bartender was there, wiping absently at the counter with his eyes on the screen.  
  
Bellamy was there, too.  
  
Good. That was what she'd hoped for. She stared at his back for a minute.  
  
He was attractive. Their kid would be attractive. _Oh, God._  
  
She took a deep breath, marching over to where he sat. "Hey."  
  
He was surprised. "Clarke. Hey." He straightened up in his seat. "How are you?" His gaze swept over her, and his brow crinkled a little. "Did I know you're a doctor?"  
  
“I'm not yet,” she said. “I'm in medical school right now.” She paused, and he opened his mouth to reply. She didn’t give him the chance. “We need to talk.” He stared at her for a moment before he gave her a short, jerky nod. "Could we, um, could we do it not—not in a bar?" she added. "Like go to a coffee shop, or something?"  
  
“Sure. Yeah, sure.” He stood.  
  
It turned out there was a small coffee place they could walk to down the street.  
  
They didn't talk until they slid into a booth, and she forced herself to look him in the eye. “I assume you have an idea what this is about,” she started.  
  
He nodded.“I have a few guesses." His voice was low, grim.  
  
She bit her lip. "Is one that I'm pregnant? Because that's the right answer."  
  
She watched the muscles in his cheek twitch when his jaw locked, saw him swallow thickly. "Shit." He pushed a hand through his hair, looking away from her. " _Shit_."  
  
“I guess condoms aren't one hundred percent effective,” she muttered.  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
It was quiet. She should've gotten a coffee. She needed something to do with her hands.  
  
"Okay, um." Bellamy looked at her, and blew out a long breath. "If you decide not to keep it, I'll do whatever you need me to. If you want me to help pay for—for it, or go to the doctor's with you, or anything. Just let me know what you need from me." He stared at her, waiting, and she nodded. "And if you decide to—that you want to—to keep it, you need to know that I'll support you. I'll do right by the baby, and—and you."  
  
She pressed her fingers into the table. "Okay. Thank you."  
  
"Just if you—I know that this is your decision," he continued, "but I'd rather you didn't—I don't want you to give it up for adoption. I know it's a good thing to do, or whatever, but I couldn't live with knowing that my kid was out there, and I wasn't—you know. I guess that’s selfish, but I don’t think I could do that.”  
  
"Me, neither," she admitted, and his shoulders seemed to sink the slightest bit in relief.  
  
"Okay. So." He stared at her. "Do you . . . need some time to think about it?" he asked.  
  
"Actually, I don’t think I do," she said. "I think I know what I want to do. In high school, my friend—well, she was more like a friend of a friend, but—she got pregnant, and she didn't keep it. It was the right decision. She was way too young, and totally unprepared, and I know her life is better now than it would've been if she'd kept it. But she told me once in college that she thought about it a lot. _It_ , I mean. I think she regrets her decision.”  
  
"You want to keep it," Bellamy said. It was impossible to read his expression.  
  
His face was tense, hard; it was a far cry from the warm, teasing boy she’d met at a bar.  
  
"I do," she admitted. "Glass—my friend—I think not having it is going to mess with her for the rest of her life, and I know that a baby—" She shook her head. "I know that you're stuck with _a baby_ for the rest of your life, too, and I know the smart, _responsible_ thing to do would be to—not to keep it, but." She shrugged helplessly at him.  
  
She’d thought about this a lot.  
  
She was twenty-four, had a college degree. This wouldn't be _impossible_.  
  
"Okay," he said. That was it.  
  
"Is it really okay?" she asked. She wanted to believe that Bellamy was a good guy, but she didn't know him. He _seemed_ like one. Then again, Finn had, too. "Because if I'm really going to do this,” she said, trying to read him, “I want my baby to have a father."  
  
Anger flickered across his face suddenly, disappearing as quickly as it came to melt into that tense, blank face he’d perfected. But she’d seen it, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she hadn’t; there was anger in his voice. “If you’re really going to do this, I’m not going anywhere," he snapped. "Trust me, Princess. _My_ baby is going to have a father.” He glared at her.  
  
She blinked, trying to reign in her shock at how mean he'd suddenly become. But it was good that he was angry at the idea that he wouldn't be involved, right? She nodded. "Good," she said, clearing her throat. The silence that followed was awful. "I guess we should exchange information," she went on at last. She pulled out her phone, and he did the same. "To start, my name's Clarke _Griffin_."  
  
"Bellamy Blake," he said.  
  
Blake. That could be her kid's last name. Or, no, it'd be Griffin, wouldn't it?  
  
They exchanged numbers, and he gave her his address, and his sister's number, too. "In case it's an emergency," he said. It was thoughtful, and it made her calmer in a strange, detached way. They'd figure this out. It was a disaster, but they'd weather it. She told him she'd call him if anything changed, and he walked her to her car.  
  
"I'm sorry about this," she said, breaking the silence when they reached her car.  
  
She needed to say _something_ , and it was what came out.  
  
He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Me, too," he said, and he waited for her to get into her car before he slouched off down the street.  
  
\---  
  
She texted him to let him know about her doctor's appointment; it was at a clinic near the bar. It would've been easier to go to the hospital where her program was, but she wasn't ready to announce her pregnancy to her parents yet, let alone to everyone in her program.  
  
_Come if you want to_ , she told him.  
  
She didn't know whether she wanted him to come, or not. It'd be good if he did, right? It'd show that he really was going to be in this with her. But she knew it’d be awkward to have him there at the doctor’s with her, standing over her shoulder. She didn't _know_ him. How did this happen again? What got her into this mess?  
  
Raven. She was going to blame Raven.  
  
She was flipping anxiously through _People_ when somebody sat next to her suddenly, and it took her a moment to realize it was Bellamy. “Hey,” she greeted, skating her gaze over him.  
  
He'd clearly come from work, although she realized only at that moment that she didn't know what it was Bellamy did. He was dressed in work boots, dirty jeans, and a heavy blue coat that was splattered in mud. His hair was sweaty, and sticking up slightly on the side, but it looked like he'd made an effort to wash up: dirt stained his neck, but it cut off abruptly with a wavy smudge beneath his jaw, and his face was clean.  
  
He smiled tightly when she caught his eye. “How are you?”  
  
“I'm okay.” She hesitated, but, well, he asked, and it was nice to be able to talk about this with somebody, actually. “I haven't really been sick, but I've been, I don't know, _weak_. School is killing me lately. I read that it gets easier after the first trimester, though. You get your strength back.”  
  
He nodded, and it was quiet for a minute. But she had to ask.  
  
“Hey, what do you do? I don’t think you told me.”  
  
“Irrigation,” he said. He wore that same blank, unreadable look on his face that he’d had at the coffee shop. She didn’t like it. “I install and maintain irrigation systems.”  
  
“Oh. How long have you done that?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Eight, nine years.”  
  
She eyed him. She assumed he was around her age, but. “How old are you?”  
  
“Twenty-nine.”  
  
“I’m twenty-four.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
She stared at him. “What’s your favorite color?”  
  
He raised an eyebrow at her, and his lip twitched. “Yellow.”  
  
She frowned. “Whose favorite color is _yellow_?”  
  
“What’s wrong with yellow?”  
  
“It’s yellow,” she said. “Nobody’s favorite color is yellow.”  
  
“I think I know what my own favorite color is, Princess,” he replied, “and it’s yellow.”  
  
She didn’t have a chance to reply to that; the nurse called her name, and Bellamy trailed after her. It was awkward when the nurse took her weight, asked about her period, told her to undress, to put on this gown because they wanted to do a transvaginal ultrasound.  
  
Bellamy turned away from her while she changed.  
  
Once the ultrasound technician came in, nerves swirled to life in Clarke’s stomach.  
  
What if those tests were wrong, and she wasn’t really pregnant? How awkward would that be? What if there was something wrong with the baby? It wasn’t like she was attached to it, but what if it was really a tumor, or something? The technician pushed the wand into her, and Clarke winced, staring at the screen that was going to show her baby.  
  
“There.” The technician pointed at the screen.  
  
“Oh, my God,” Clarke whispered. There it was. She lifted her hand up a little, starting to drop it when she remembered, but Bellamy was faster; he caught her hand, squeezing. They listened to the heartbeat, and the doctor came in to talk, and it was all very, very real.  
  
She was pregnant.  
  
There was a tiny little baby with a tiny little heart inside her.  
  
They decided on the way to their cars not to tell anybody yet; as far as Clarke was concerned, there wasn’t a reason to freak out her parents until it was absolutely necessary to, and she had a feeling that Bellamy agreed it was easier to keep it as secret for as long as possible. Of course, he seemed to agree to everything she suggested, jerking his head at her with that cold, curt nod he’d patented.  
  
“How much did this appointment cost?” he asked.  
  
She blinked at him. “Don’t worry about it. I have insurance.”  
  
But his frown only grew sharper. “It’s March. Have you reached your deductible yet?”  
  
“Not yet—”  
  
“Then I’ll pay for it,” he said. “How much was it?”  
  
“I don’t need—”  
  
“I can support my kid, Princess,” he snapped, startling her.  
  
She stared at him. “How about you pay for half?” she said at last. That was fair.  
  
It took him a moment, but he nodded. “Fine. How much?” He’d taken a checkbook from his pocket already, and she saw that he’d started to fill out a check already, too. He’d come prepared for this.  
  
She didn’t need his money, but she understood the gesture.  
  
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said, tense.  
  
She nodded, clutching the little white card with the grainy pictures. He was nearly at his car across the lot when it occurred to her that he might want one. “Bellamy!”  
  
He glanced at her, and she started for him quickly; he met her halfway. “What?”  
  
“I thought—do you want a picture?” she asked.  
  
He stared at her for a moment, and she felt stupid, growing defensive, and opened her mouth to take it back, and he nodded. “I’ll take the one that looks like a gingerbread cookie.”  
  
There was a line in his brow, and he looked stern, serious.  
  
But he thought the baby looked like a _cookie_.  
  
She bit her lip to bite in her smile. “Sure. Of course.” She gave him the picture, watching him when he started for his car with his eyes on the photo. She might not really know him yet, but she wanted to like him. She needed to. She was stuck with him for life now.  
  
\---  
  
The strange, giddy feeling that overtook her when she saw the baby on the ultrasound gave way to panic as soon as she was alone in the apartment that night.  
  
What the hell was she doing?  
  
She was _pregnant_ , and nobody knew except the stranger who knocked her up.  
  
But there was nothing for her to do right now. They agreed not to tell anybody yet. If it was going to stay a secret for a while, she didn’t need to worry about it for a while. Honestly, it wasn’t really, truly _real_ yet. There were other, more pressing things for her to worry about.  
  
She talked herself off the ledge, and went to bed.  
  
She woke up an hour later, spending the rest of the night at the toilet.  
  
That become routine quickly, and she dragged her comforter into the bathroom after only three days, deciding to sleep in the bathroom for the foreseeable, vomit-filled future. Mostly, she was sick at night, and she was glad: it made it easy for her to bury her head in the sand during the day, and that was how she made it through March, and into April.  
  
She wanted to balk when her mother announced that she’d found Clarke a date to the mayor’s annual spring charity for the troops, but she couldn’t find an excuse.  
  
His name was Jason, he’d gone to Princeton, and he was generally friendly, pleasant.  
  
But while Clarke circled the ballroom with him, kissing at cheeks, sipping at drinks that didn’t give her a buzz, and accepting compliments on her hair, her dress, her efforts on the volunteer decoration committee, she couldn’t help but think that in three months time, every single person in this room was going to be aghast with gossip about her.  
  
Did you hear about Abby’s daughter?  
  
_Knocked up_ , and I heard the father works in _irrigation_. Can you believe it? Think about Abby. Think about _Jake_! It must’ve broken his heart. His little girl. _Did you hear that—?_  
  
She avoided calls from Jason for a week, and from her mother for longer.  
  
She didn’t hear a word from Bellamy, and there wasn’t a reason to contact him.  
  
It wasn’t until it was time to return to the doctor’s that she contacted him finally, telling him when the appointment was, and he texted back simply _okay_. He was at the appointment, and gave her a check to pay for half, but they didn't really talk until they were on their way to their cars. “I guess there are things we’ve got to talk about," he started.  
  
She nodded. “We have to figure this out. I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t real, but that isn’t going to work for much longer. I have class in half an hour, but, um, I’ll call you?”  
  
“Okay.” He paused. “I don’t work on Sundays.”  
  
“Sunday works for me,” she said. “I’ll call you, and we’ll figure out a time.”  
  
She sat in her car for a moment after he’d walked off. She was three months along. She was going to have to tell her parents. She was going to have to figure this out. Read some books, look into daycare. Find a new, bigger apartment, research possible custody issues.  
  
She went on the Internet that night, scaring herself silly with stories about SIDS.  
  
Bellamy surprised her when he texted her on Thursday. _Can you come to dinner at my house tonight? My sister wants to meet you._  
  
_Tonight?_ It was last minute; she was supposed to go to a party at her father’s office.  
  
He replied immediately. _It’s important._  
  
Her mother was going to be pissed if Clarke cancelled. But. She hadn’t told her parents yet. They’d want to meet Bellamy as soon as she did, and that was going to be hell for him. The least she could do was meet his sister when he asked her to. _Okay. What time?_  
  
It turned out he lived only a street over from the bar where they’d met.  
  
The houses were older, narrow buildings with about a foot between each, sporting patchy front yards boxed in with chain link fences; she passed a yard with a deflated kiddy pool, another with multiple stone fountains, and pulled up to a house with peeling orange paint.  
  
She’d never seen an _orange_ house before, but this was it. Number 340.  
  
There were several camping chairs on the porch along with what looked like a child’s art project that hung from hooks in the ceiling: seashells, buttons, and glittery plastic stars were strung on twine, and produced a faint tinkling noise when they swayed in the wind.  
  
The door swung open before she knocked.  
  
“It’s Clarke, right?”  
  
She was a thin, bony girl with a narrow face, hair a shade lighter than her brother’s, and bright red nails on her dark, bony fingers, and the look on her face made Clarke inexplicably nervous. She’d tried to dress up a little for dinner, but it was clear that wasn’t an expectation; his sister was in a tank top without a bra, jean shorts, and bare feet. “Yeah, hey,” Clarke said, “and you’re, um, you’re Bellamy’s sister?”  
  
“Octavia.”  
  
“Octavia. Nice to meet you.” She smiled, and Octavia nodded after a beat, stepping back to let her into the house. “These are for you,” Clarke said, handing her the chocolates she’d brought. Octavia raised an eyebrow at her. “Like for—for hosting. It’s a hostess . . . present. I thought. . . .” She flushed.  
  
“Thanks,” Octavia said. “Well, come in. I made pasta.”  
  
She followed Octavia into the house. It was cluttered with trinkets, and it looked like it hadn’t changed since the 1970s, including the pink rosebud paper on the walls, dark wood paneling, and pilled, floral print furniture, but everything was clean, well-cared for.  
  
It was nice.  
  
Bellamy was in the kitchen, setting the table.  
  
“Hey. Octavia made pasta.”  
  
Clarke nodded. “It smells good.”  
  
If they got points for politeness, they were going to win whatever it was they were playing.  
  
“Do you want juice, or something?” he asked, starting for the fridge. “I didn’t—I’ve got orange juice, apple juice, and grape juice.”  
  
“Wow. Big juice fan.”  
  
“He bought it for you,” Octavia said, cross. “Since you can’t drink beer.”  
  
Clarke blinked at her. She looked at Bellamy. “Oh, um. I guess I’ll—”  
  
“You don’t have to—”  
  
“No, I—grape. Grape is good. I’ll have some grape juice, please.” She smiled.  
  
He poured a glass of grape juice, and Octavia stared at Clarke with a blank, stony face, and this dinner was off to a _super_ start.  
  
She tried to learn a little about Octavia while they ate. It turned out that she was Clarke’s age, worked at a vet’s office, and lived in an apartment nearby with her boyfriend, Lincoln, who was a logger one town over. “Where do your parents live?” Clarke asked.  
  
“Our mom died eight years ago,” Octavia said, “and our dad split years before that.” She didn’t give Clarke a chance to comment. “Now that you’ve asked your questions, it’s time for mine. What’s the deal with this baby? Have you thought about the logistics yet?”  
  
Clarke stared. Okay. That was abrupt. “Honestly, I—I haven’t. Not really.”  
  
“O,” Bellamy started.  
  
“Shut up, Bell.” Her gaze was pinned on Clarke. “Where are you going to live?”  
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“It’d be easiest for you to live with Bellamy. If you want, we’ll kick Miller to the curb.”  
  
“Um, I—who’s Miller?” Clarke asked, trying to catch up. She was stunned at the sudden, sharp turn in the conversation.  
  
“I’m not kicking Miller out, O,” Bellamy growled. “He pays rent—”  
  
“You aren’t going to live with Miller your whole life,” Octavia cut him off, continuing to stare at Clarke, “especially not when you’ve got a wife and baby.”  
  
“We aren’t getting married,” Bellamy said.  
  
“Yes, you are,” Octavia replied, and Clarke’s jaw dropped.  
  
Bellamy pushed his chair back, moving to his feet.  
  
“Hold on, I don’t—” Clarke started.  
  
“You’re pregnant,” Octavia said sharply, “and my brother’s going to marry you.”  
  
Bellamy grabbed her elbow a moment later. “Up. Let’s go.” She jerked her arm from his grasp, but she let him push her from the room, and he slammed the door to the kitchen shut behind them, leaving Clarke to stare at her pasta in deafening, shell-shocked silence.  
  
It wasn’t silent for long, though.  
  
Their angry, muffled voices rose until they weren’t as muffled as they thought.  
  
“— _pregnant_ , Bell!”  
  
“I’m aware!”  
  
“Well, you could have fooled me! She’s _pregnant_! That’s _your_ baby in her! That means you marry her, Bell! How is that a hard concept for you to grasp?”  
  
“Dammit, would you—”  
  
“It’s the _right_ thing to do, and it’s what you’re going to do! It’s not a discussion.”  
  
“It’s not your _business_ is what it’s not,” Bellamy snapped.  
  
Octavia plowed on. “I know you love your girls, but _that_ girl is the one you knocked up, which means _that_ girl is the one you marry. Or is your plan to be Murphy, paying child support to two different women from _prison_?”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, O! No! No, my plan is not to be Murphy!”  
  
“Then _marry_ her!” Octavia screamed.  
  
“No! She—”  
  
“I’m getting Granny’s ring. Where is it? I know Mom gave it to you.”  
  
“Would you get off your high fucking horse for one _second_ , and listen to—”  
  
“Where is it? You’re going to give it to her right now, and—”  
  
“SHE DOESN’T WANT TO MARRY ME!” Bellamy shouted.  
  
It went silent. Clarke was frozen in her seat, clutching her fork with white knuckles while her heart pounded wildly in her chest.  
  
“Did she say that?” Octavia asked. Her voice was softer, hurt. “You’ve got a house, a job. You’re sweet, and responsible, and you’d never hurt her, and—she really told you no?”  
  
“She didn’t have to,” Bellamy said. “Look. I’m not Murphy. I’m not _Dad_. I’m not. If she were from our neighborhood, I’d have given her a ring already. I would’ve, okay? But she’s _not_ from our neighborhood. She’s as far from our neighborhood as you can _get_ , O. I know. I saw her apartment. Trust me when I say it wouldn’t help her to marry me, and she doesn’t want to. Girls like that don’t marry guys like me, O. They fuck us once for a good time when they’re drunk, and that’s it.”  
  
There was another long, awful silence. “She’s pretty,” Octavia said at last.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“The kid’ll be cute. Smart, too, I bet.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Is she going to marry some rich guy in a year, and try to freeze you out?”  
  
“I don’t know. I can’t really think about that right now. But, just, let me figure it out? I love you, but you got to let me figure this one out myself, okay?”  
  
Octavia replied, but it was now too soft for Clarke to hear.  
  
She couldn’t believe it, and the stupidest, most irrelevant thought popped into her head: was that why he didn’t leave a note? Did he see her apartment, and—?  
  
Unreasonably, it made her angry. He didn’t _know_ her. Who was he to judge her?  
  
The door swung open, and Clarke lowered her fork quickly, trying not to look like a deer caught in the headlights. They didn’t know she’d overheard, right? There was no way they’d have had that conversation if they thought she could hear them. Bellamy filed in, but his sister didn’t, and Clarke was glad.  
  
She couldn’t deal with them both right now.  
  
Bellamy pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about my sister,” he said. “We hadn’t really had a chance to talk about things before she insisted that you come for dinner. I didn’t know she was going to spring that on you.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Clarke said.  
  
He hated her, didn’t he? She was a rich, stuck-up girl to him, and he hated her.  
  
He sat at the table, picking up his fork. They ate in silence for a minute before he cleared his throat. “I need to know what you need from me.” He stared at her. “I’ll go to the doctor’s with you. If you need money, I can help with that, too. I know there’s a lot you’ve got to buy, and it adds up, but you don’t—I’m good for that. Let me know how much you need, and I’ll get it to you.”  
  
“I appreciate that,” she said, “but I really—I don’t need money. I’m good.”  
  
His jaw seemed to twitch. “Right.”  
  
She bit her lip. “I’ll keep you updated on everything with the pregnancy. It’s nice to—to have you come to the doctor’s with me,” she said. He nodded. “Also, there are infant care, CPR, and new father classes at the hospital that I thought would be good for you to take. I’ll take the infant care class with you. We can pick a time that works for you.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
She paused. “When works for you?”  
  
“Do they have the classes on Sundays? I work on Saturdays a lot now that it’s spring.”  
  
“I think, yes.”  
  
He nodded. “If you need me to, I’ll stop once the baby’s born. To make time for—her, or. Him.” He dropped her gaze, reaching for his beer, and Clarke stared at her juice.  
  
This baby might be a _her_. She might look like Octavia. Or he might be a him, and look like Bellamy. Darker genes were dominant, right? Chances were that the baby would have dark skin, darker hair. Clarke drew her gaze over Bellamy. She’d take the freckles, the dimple.  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” she said at last.  
  
They finished their dinner in silence. Octavia returned soon after, taking a pecan pie from the fridge. “Harper made it for my birthday on Tuesday,” she explained.  
  
“Happy birthday.” Clarke smiled, and Octavia nodded.  
  
She started to question Clarke while they dug into the pie, but these were the questions that Clarke had expected: she told Octavia that she was from the city, her father was an engineer, her mother was a surgeon, and Clarke was in school right now to be a doctor, too.  
  
“I guess you’re pretty smart,” Octavia said.  
  
“I guess,” Clarke said.  
  
“Bellamy is, too,” Octavia continued. “He likes to watch super boring history stuff on the TV, and he’ll start to browse Wikipedia randomly, and learn these random history facts.”  
  
“O—”  
  
“I’m allowed to tell her you’re a nerd, Bell,” Octavia said.  
  
They finished their slices, and Bellamy wrapped up the pie that remained for Clarke to take with her when she left. She ate it that night, standing at the counter in her kitchen with the TV on mute, going over it all in her head, and dreading what had to happen next.  
  
\---  
  
She told her mother that she wanted to have dinner at the house. “Just you, me, and Dad.”  
  
“Sounds nice,” her mother said, smiling over the phone.  
  
She wore pearls that belonged to her grandmother to soften her father, and put her hair up in the twist that her mother liked, and she practiced her explanation on the drive, perfecting it to a word. It was time to get this over with. She _needed_ to get this over with.  
  
She waited until her father was finished with his steak before she cleared her throat.  
  
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.  
  
Her parents exchanged a glance, and a smile pulled at her mother’s lips. “We suspected there might be.” Her eyes were bright, excited. “There’s a boy in the picture, isn’t there?”  
  
“You’ve been a little squirrely lately, sweetheart.”  
  
Her father gave her such a happy, knowing smile, and Clarke thought she might be sick.  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Clarke said.  
  
Her mother laughed a little. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked.  
  
“It means I’m pregnant.”  
  
It was silent for a moment until—“What?” her mother asked sharply, breathless.  
  
“I’m pregnant,” Clarke repeated. “I had my twelve week appointment last Wednesday. I know I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how, and I put it off. I’m sorry. I needed time to figure some things out. Obviously, I’ve, um, I’ve decided to keep it.”  
  
Her mother swallowed visibly, and stared at Clarke with lips pressed thin and white. “Who’s the father?”  
  
“His name is Bellamy Blake.”  
  
“I see. Why have we never heard about him before today?”  
  
“It wasn’t, um. It wasn’t really serious.”  
  
“But it was serious enough for you get _pregnant_ ,” her mother snapped, and her father sighed into his plate. Clarke glanced at him but had to look away; she couldn’t stand how old he looked suddenly, how _disappointed_. “I assume you plan to get married,” her mother continued. “Do we get an invitation to the wedding, or do we get to find out about that three months later, too?”  
  
Clarke took a deep breath, meeting her stare. “We aren’t going to get married.”  
  
“Clarke,” her father murmured.  
  
“You’re _pregnant_ ,” her mother said sharply, eyes flashing. But her eyes seemed to soften a moment later. “Unless—he’s said he doesn’t want to? Oh, _Clarke_. Is that what this is about?” She shook her head, touching Clarke’s arm. “We’ll have your father talk to him. Or, better, we’ll have your father talk to _his_ father.” She looked at Clarke’s father. “Jake—”  
  
“No. Mom, no,” Clarke cut in. “He’s willing to marry me; that’s not the problem. But I don’t want to marry him.” It was quiet, and Clarke swallowed thickly. “Besides, he doesn’t have a father for Dad to talk to.”  
  
Her mother stared at her. “What about his mother? I don’t suppose I know her.”  
  
“No. She died eight years ago.”  
  
“I _see_.” Again, that awful, awful silence. “What does Bellamy do?”  
  
Clarke dug her fingers into her knee under the table. “He works in irrigation.” Her mother raised an eyebrow at her. “He installs and maintains irrigation systems.”  
  
Her mother’s chin trembled. “How did you meet this boy, Clarke?”  
  
“Is that relevant?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
“Fine. I—I met him at a  . . . bar.”  
  
“Oh, my God.” Her mother’s elbow clanged on the table, rattling the china, and she buried her face in her hand. “What is the matter with you?” she screeched into her palm.  
  
“Abby, please,” Jake murmured.  
  
“I know this isn’t ideal,” Clarke started, turning to him. “But he’s really not a bad guy, and we’re going to figure this out. I might have to take a semester off school, but—”  
  
“But you are _pregnant_ by some _random_ man you met at a bar!” her mother cried, lifting her head to glare tearfully at Clarke. “Some man who, _apparently_ , isn’t educated, or prepared to care for a child, doesn’t comes from a good family, doesn’t—and _you_ —” Clarke tried to cut in, but her mother didn’t let her.  “How could be this _stupid_? How could you have let this happen?”  
  
She started to lecture at Clarke.  
  
Clarke gave up, pushing back her chair. “I think _you_ need time to figure some things out, Mom. Let me know when you want to talk.” She started from the dining room.  
  
“This conversation isn’t finished, Clarke. Clarke!”  
  
“Yes, it is!” Clarke yelled, and she was in the hallway, at the door.  
  
The last thing she heard before she yanked her mother’s beloved, imported front door shut was her mother shout for the maid, and another sad, tired “Abby, _please_.”  
  
\---  
  
It figured that her car was going to choose that night to make a loud, awful crunching noise, giving her only a minute to pull it to the side of the road before it died.  
  
She called triple A, and they promised to be there within minutes.  
  
But once they’d hung up, she gripped the phone in her hand, and tears built in her chest.  
  
What was she supposed to do? Call her father to pick her up? Call a girl in her program? Ask for a ride to her apartment, and spend another long, miserable night alone on the floor next to the toilet? She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to deal with her car, or this baby. She couldn’t do this on her own. She missed Raven. She missed _Wells_.  
  
She began to cry, hugging her waist.  
  
She couldn’t do this, didn’t _want_ to do this. But she had to, and she couldn’t cry about it.  
  
She breathed in, breathed out, and fumbled with her phone. She’d call a girl in her program to pick her up. Beth. She liked Beth; she was a truly, genuinely nice person, and she wouldn’t resent being asked to give Clarke a ride. She’d call Beth, and she’d go home, take a long bath, and find something good to eat in her pajamas in bed.  
  
Only when she scrolled to Beth’s number in her phone, she saw Bellamy’s.  
  
She called him.  
  
“Clarke?”  
  
She broke. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I’m—” She breathed in sharply, trying not to cry. “Can you—can you pick me up? My car broke down, and triple A is coming, but I—”  
  
“Where are you?” he asked.  
  
She told him, and he said he was on his way, but he wanted her to stay on the phone with him. “Okay.” She nodded. “Okay.” It was quiet, and she listened to him breathe over the phone for a moment, and— “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, hiccoughing. “I plan, I’m a _planner_ , and I’m rational, and responsible, and stuff like this doesn’t happen to me, and when it does, I fix it. But I don’t know how to—to fix this, and—”  
  
She couldn’t speak through her tears, bawling into the phone.  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured.  
  
But she’d opened the floodgates, and now she couldn’t close them.  
  
“My mother is horrible,” she sobbed, “and my father is a doormat, and I—I don’t know how to do this on my own. Raven is in South America, and Wells is _dead_ , and—”  
  
She swallowed her tears, squeezing her eyes shut.  
  
It wasn’t long before headlights washed over her.  
  
She assumed it was the man from triple A, and she wiped at her cheeks. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “The guy from triple A—” But somebody tapped on her window, and it was Bellamy. He stepped back to let her open the door, to let her step out.  
  
“Hey,” she said, “I—” She felt ridiculous suddenly for calling him, for crying to him, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I freaked out, I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing.  
  
He touched her arm, and she looked him in the eye. “I’m glad you called me,” he said.  
  
She couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, but his voice was soft, and his thumb brushed against her arm lightly, and she didn’t think before she stepped into his arms. He hugged her, rubbing her back.  
  
They stayed like that until a truck pulled up.  
  
Bellamy kissed the top of her head, dropping his arms to the side, and she stepped away from him to blink at the light of the truck.  
  
Twenty minutes later, she climbed into Bellamy’s truck. It smelled like him, and like some heavy, sweet vanilla scent that she realized quickly came from a plastic air freshener clipped onto the dashboard. “Do you want me to take you to your apartment?” he asked.  
  
“Not really,” she muttered. “But, yeah. Yes.” She mustered a smile. “That’s fine.”  
  
He shifted the car into drive, pulling out on to the road. It was quiet. Clarke punched on the radio; there was a CD in, and some whiny singer came on. She glanced at Bellamy, amused. “Shut up,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, and she grinned at the window.  
  
They didn’t talk until he pulled up in front of her building. He remembered the way.  
  
“Thank you for this,” she said.  
  
He nodded. She knew she needed to unbuckle her seatbelt, leave the car, go into her apartment. She had a nice, warm bath on her to do list. But she didn’t want to, and Bellamy knew it. “Hey.” She looked at him. “If you don’t want to be by yourself tonight, my couch pulls out.”  
  
She bit her lip. “Okay. If you don’t mind, that’d be—that’d be nice.”  
  
She changed to the radio while he drove, but “no,” he said when she stopped on a station, starting to sit back. She sighed, spinning the dial to another favorite station, and “nope.”  
  
“This means you have to accept whatever is third,” she told him.  
  
It turned out that the third was Hot 97.5 Pop.  
  
“ _It’s hard to look right at you, baby_!” Clarke sang.  
  
“No.”  
  
“ _But here’s my number, so call me maybe_!”  
  
He tried to change the station, and she slapped at his hand.  
  
“I’m the driver,” he said.  
  
“I’m pregnant with your child.”  
  
He pursed his lips at her.  
  
But his hands were on the steering wheel, and she grinned, shaking her shoulders a little along with the beat. “ _And this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe_!”  
  
It occurred to her only when they were walking onto his porch that she should’ve packed up pajamas while they were her apartment, and things like a toothbrush. But she hadn’t, and there was nothing to do now; she followed Bellamy into the house, and he introduced her to the guy sprawled in a recliner, drinking a beer.  
  
“Clarke, this is Miller. Miller, Clarke.”  
  
Miller raised his beer at her in salute, and Clarke smiled. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
Bellamy disappeared up the stairs, leaving Clarke to watch _The Parent Trap_ on TV with Miller, who she learned grew up in New York, worked for the same landscaping company Bellamy worked for, and was convinced that Lindsey Lohan was going to make a comeback.  
  
Bellamy joined them after a bit.  
  
It was nice, watching movies on TV, talking about nothing, and snacking on swiss cake rolls, and when she was forced to dangle her feet off the couch in order to stretch out, Bellamy grabbed her calves, shifting to slump against the pillows, and pulled her feet into his lap.  
  
But Miller started to snore eventually, and Bellamy turned off the TV. Clarke blinked sleepily at him.  
  
“Come on,” he said. “I changed the sheets on my bed for you.”  
  
“I thought I was going to sleep on the couch.”  
  
“The couch is for me, Princess,” he replied. “Come on.”  
  
She followed him up the stairs and into a bedroom where fresh white sheets were spread across the bed, and a towel was folded neatly on top next to purple, polka-dot pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and socks. Her chest seemed to expand with warmth, and she turned to thank Bellamy only to hear his footsteps on the stairs.  
  
She closed the door softly, changed, and crawled onto the bed. The sheets smelled like detergent, and she rolled her eyes at herself when she wished for a moment that they smelled like Bellamy. She pushed her hands under her shirt, touching her belly. Her baby.  
  
_Their_ baby, and she drifted off like that, forgetting to turn off the lamp in the corner.  
  
\---  
  
She avoided calls from her parents that weekend, although she was tempted to answer when five missed calls from her mother were followed by a call from her father.  
  
Instead, she caught up on things.  
  
She felt better than she had in _months_ on Sunday, and she took advantage: she cleaned her apartment, wrote a long, rambling e-mail to Raven, dropping the bomb on her, studied for school, started to make a budget for the baby, and made an Amazon wishlist.  
  
She texted Bellamy. _I was very productive today_.  
  
_I wasn’t_.  
  
She rolled her eyes, and texted a girl in her program about hanging out that night. But she texted Bellamy again on Tuesday, asking what he was up to that night. The strain that used to exist between them seemed to have faded a little now, and, well, she wanted to see him. He responded that he got off at five, and was planning to hang out at the house.  
  
It wouldn’t be weird for her text that she might stop by, right?  
  
But she didn’t need to; he texted her. _I’m going to Kroger. What snacks do you like?_  
  
She arrived at his house a little after to six to find that he’d bought everything she asked for, and she bit in her smile when she saw that he’d gotten Ritz crackers along with a block of bright orange, store-brand cheddar; it wasn’t exactly what she had meant when she’d texted that she liked cheese and crackers, but he’d tried.  
  
Besides, it turned out that bright orange, store-brand cheddar on Ritz was good.  
  
They flipped through channels for a while, and ordered pizza before _Jeopardy_ came on.  
  
Only minutes after the pizza was delivered, there was a shout from the porch, and people seemed to pour into the house suddenly; Clarke recognized Octavia, who paused when she saw Clarke next to Bellamy on the couch.  
  
“Hey.” Clarke smiled.  
  
Miller decided to introduce them. “O, this is Clarke. That’s Bellamy’s sister, Octavia.”  
  
“We’ve met,” Octavia said, and she cracked a smile. “This is Monty, and Harper, and that idiot is Jasper.” They chorused a greeting to Clarke, piling into the room around her.  
  
Clarke was startled when Harper leaned in to hug her.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you!”  
  
She brushed a hand down Clarke’s arm when she pulled away, and her eyes lingered on Clarke’s hand; it took Clarke a moment to understand, but she realized in time to see Harper shoot Bellamy an angry, disappointed look before she moved to sit next to Octavia.  
  
“I hope you took that out to stare at it,” Bellamy growled.  
  
Clarke followed his gaze to see Jasper with a joint, and Monty next to him with a lighter. Jasper blinked. “Oh, right.” He glanced at Clarke, and _winked_.  
  
She flushed.  
  
Did everyone in this room know she was pregnant?  
  
They must. That was _exactly_ what they knew about her: that she was the random girl Bellamy knocked up.  
  
But the awkwardness that she expected wasn’t there. Nobody seemed to care that Clarke was there, or think it was weird, and she liked them. They were a fun, clearly close-knit group: arguing, joking, shouting their answers at the TV when _Jeopardy_ came on at last, and she joined in when she recognized a quote.  
  
The contestants didn’t have an answer. “Oppenheimer,” Clarke said, and got it right.  
  
She nudged Bellamy’s shoulder with her chin.  
  
“Congratulations,” he said, smirking.  
  
She grinned. He smelled like soap, and that clean, sharp boy deodorant smell. She liked it.  
  
She turned her face into his arm for a sniff, only to catch Octavia’s gaze on her.  
  
Octavia tilted her head. “I’ve decided that I love your hair,” she said. She tossed the crust of her slice into the empty, grease-stained box, and sprang to her feet _on_ the couch, walking over Monty’s lap to fall to her knees at Clarke’s side. “I’m going to play with it.”  
  
Clarke blinked. “Okay.”  
  
“Sit up,” she instructed, tugging on the tie that held Clarke’s ponytail.  
  
She combed her fingers deftly through Clarke’s hair, sweeping it off her neck, starting to braid it. “I hope the baby’s got your hair,” she said.  
  
“I think it’ll have dark hair, and my blue eyes,” Clarke replied. “That’d be cute, right?”  
  
The moment she said the words, she wanted to take them back.  
  
She hadn’t meant to say them, hadn’t been thinking when she’d blurted them out.  
  
But nobody seemed to react; next to her, Bellamy didn’t blink, and “ooh, yes,” Octavia agreed, undoing the braid before coiling Clarke’s hair on top of her head, “and your cheeks with Bellamy’s freckles. I can see it now.” She sighed loudly. “My niece is going to be _adorable_. Not like Fox’s baby with that weird, triangle-shaped head.”  
  
“Hey, I think she’s cute!”  
  
“Save it for when Fox is around, Harp,” Octavia replied.  
  
“Do we know it’s a girl?” Monty asked.  
  
“Nope,” Octavia said. “Not yet. But I’m allowed to try to wish it into being.”  
  
“Do you want it to be a girl?” Monty asked, looking at Clarke.  
  
“Girls always want girls,” Jasper said.  
  
“I don’t know that I care,” Clarke admitted. She’d thought about it, and she really didn’t know what she wanted. Then again, it didn’t matter what she wanted; it wasn’t like she got to choose. “I think I’m happy with either as long as the baby is healthy. Is that lame?”  
  
“Yes,” Octavia said.  
  
Harper gave a short, exasperated laugh, and Clarke shared a smile with her.  
  
“Yo, B, what about you?” Jasper asked.  
  
Bellamy shrugged. “Clarke’s answer."  
  
Jasper booed.  
  
“Bell wants a girl,” Octavia said. “I know my brother. He totally wants a little girl.”  
  
Clarke looked at him. “Do you?”  
  
“I know how to raise a girl,” he said. “But I’ll take a boy, too.” He gave Clarke a small, easy smile, and it was suddenly impossible to look away from him.  
  
But that ended when Octavia yanked at her hair, making Clarke wince.  
  
Bellamy grinned, and Clarke shot him a watery glare.  
  
They watched a movie after _Jeopardy_ , and a SNL re-run after that, and Octavia pinned Clarke’s hair up in some fancy twist. It wasn’t until Clarke was at the home that she realized that Octavia had braided a crown into her hair, or that she had texts from several unknown numbers that turned out to belong to Jasper, Monty, Harper, and Octavia.  
  
Clarke put their numbers into her phone with a smile, ignoring the voicemails from her mother.  
  
\---  
  
She didn’t really pay attention to how, but it became routine to hang out at Bellamy’s.  
  
To drop by after school, and to spend the evening on his couch.  
  
He worked a lot, but the door was never locked, and there was always somebody there. It was like college in that way: people were always dropping in without warning, snacking, watching the TV, and joking around. It made Clarke miss Wells--and Raven, and Thalia, and _everybody_ she used to hang out with in college.  
  
But she liked Bellamy’s friends, and there was an ease to hanging out with them.  
  
They were _fun_.  
  
She showed Miller how to crush an empty beer can with a trick that Raven taught her. She watched YouTube videos on how to roll your hips with Octavia, and they practiced until they were a breathless, giggling heap on the floor. She trashed Jasper in a contest to burp the alphabet, and started a competition with Monty to be the ultimate _Jeopardy_ champion.  
  
It was a relief, too, having them know that she was pregnant.  
  
They talked about it casually, making it into something that wasn’t scary, or bad.  
  
“I asked the lady at the mall,” Harper said, “and she told me that regular nail polish is poisonous when you’re pregnant, or something, and you need to buy this fancy nail polish. I was going to buy it for you, but it was, like, way, _way_ too expensive.” She made a face at Clarke.  
  
Bellamy asked her what the brand was called, and looked it up on his phone.  
  
He swore. “The fuck makes it worth $15?”  
  
“I told you,” Harper said.  
  
He muttered under his breath. “What color do you like?” he asked. He glanced at Clarke.  
  
She frowned. “I don’t—”  
  
But he stared at her, and Octavia stared at her, and—  
  
“Is there a really light blue?” she asked.  
  
He nodded, and he ordered fancy, $15, really light blue nail polish for her.  
  
She wanted to say that he didn’t have to, that she knew he couldn’t afford to waste money on something like that. But she’d learned early on that the quickest, surest way to make Bellamy mean was to bring up money. It used to frustrate her, but she’d gotten used to it.  
  
Or at least she’d decided it wasn’t going to be the hill she died on.  
  
It wasn’t like it didn’t make sense.  
  
He liked to play the caring big brother, to look after people.  
  
To look after _Clarke_. She grew lazy about going to her apartment at the end of the night. Instead, she’d drag her feet up the stairs to crawl into Bellamy’s bed, making a cocoon for herself in old, worn sheets that smelled like him. He never said a word, but it got to the point that he bought her a toothbrush to keep in his bathroom.  
  
Honestly, she liked it. She couldn’t deny that she liked him, too.  
  
He turned into an adorable, grumpy old man when he didn’t get his way, and he loved to antagonize her, but he was funny despite the fact that Octavia told him daily that he wasn’t, and he was sweet when he wanted to be. It didn’t help that she _wanted_ him, too, and, _God_ , did she want him: his mouth, his hands. To have him above her, _inside_ her.  
  
Her pregnancy gave her vivid, tantalizingly real dreams about him, but she couldn’t have him for real, and it was torture.  
  
She took what she could get, leaning her head against his shoulder on the sofa while Octavia threw popcorn at the TV, and Jasper got high on brownies.  
  
\---  
  
She knew her mother was going to be at the luncheon, but she wanted to go. Clarke was in close to a dozen old, stuffy organizations, but the City Horticulture Club was her favorite among them, and this luncheon was to plan their annual summer charity drive.  
  
It didn’t hurt that the food was _amazing_ at their luncheons.  
  
She managed to avoid her mother at first, but it wasn’t possible for long.  
  
“It’s good to see you.” She kissed Clarke on the cheek.  
  
“Mmm,” Clarke said.  
  
Her mother sighed at that, and her gaze swept over Clarke. She was four months along, which meant that there was a small, definite bump in her stomach now, and it was obvious that she was pregnant when she was a t-shirt. But she’d bought a gauzy peach sundress at Nordstrom for the luncheon, and it easily hid the baby from prying, unwelcome eyes.  
  
“How are you?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Her mother stared at her. “I’m sorry that I went off on you,” she said softly. “I know it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t what you needed.” She paused. “I need to be in your life right now, sweetheart. This isn’t something that you’re going to be able to do on your own.” She touched Clarke on the arm.  
  
“I’m not on my own,” Clarke said.  
  
“Right. How is Bellamy? I assume he’s continued to be supportive.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But you don’t plan to marry him.” It was a question.  
  
Clarke glared. They didn’t need to this right now, right here. “No, I don’t.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
It wasn’t the response that Clarke expected, and her mother knew it.  
  
“I think that’s smart,” she continued. “It isn’t a marriage that could possibly work in the long run, and I’m glad you recognize that.” She smiled at Clarke, and brushed a hand gently over the curls that Clarke had painstakingly shaped her hair into that morning.    
  
“Why couldn’t it work?” Clarke asked.  
  
“Clarke.”  
  
“No. I want you to explain to me how you know that about a man you’ve never met.”  
  
Again, her mother sighed at her. “Clarke, please. This isn’t the place.” She turned away before Clarke was able to respond, calling a greeting to Mrs. Lee to cut off the conversation. Clarke pressed her lips together, and felt a soft, tickling flutter in her belly.  
  
She froze.  
  
Mrs. Lee started to chatter at them, and Clarke touched her stomach.  
  
The excitement overwhelmed her suddenly; it expanded in her chest until it pushed her heart into her throat, and there was another wonderful, terrifying flutter that made her clap a hand to her mouth, and she looked around, wanting to share it.  
  
She remembered where she was.  
  
Silverware tinkered around her, and the room buzzed with soft, polite chatter.  
  
It was like a switch was flipped. Clarke wanted to leave. She wanted to text Octavia, to press Bellamy’s hand to her stomach to see if he’d feel it, too. She wanted to tell Jasper, Monty, Harper, Miller, wanted to laugh about it with them, and try to describe what it felt like.  
  
She didn’t want to be trapped at this luncheon with her mother like a harpy at her side.  
  
“Well, I should go,” Clarke said, startling Mrs. Lee.  
  
She was ready with a spiel about school, but Mrs. Lee didn’t want to hear it.  
  
“Dear, no!” she protested. “We haven’t seen you in _months_!”  
  
She hooked her arm through Clarke’s, exclaiming that they needed to hear Clarke’s ideas for the drive, and Clarke’s mother chimed in that she knew Clarke was busy with school, but that this wouldn’t take more than an hour. Clarke knew better than to try to leave.  
  
This room was stuffed with women like Mrs. Lee. If she made a run for it, she’d get caught, and they’d dig their claws in deeper.  
  
In the end, she was stuck at the luncheon for the rest of the lunch, and for tea after lunch, and for the hour after tea in which the club talked in circles about what to do, and where to do it, and how much it was going to cost. She wasn’t able to escape until close to five.  
  
She drove to Bellamy’s. He wasn’t off work yet, but she texted with Octavia until he was.  
  
The moment he walked in the door, she was on her feet.  
  
“I felt the baby move!”  
  
He blinked at her for a moment before his face broke slowly into a grin, and she laughed.  
  
“It was like this funny little jolt,” she explained, “and it _completely_ stunned me, but I felt it, like, four times in only a few minutes before it stopped! I was stuck at the luncheon, and there was nobody for me to freak out with! I wish you’d been there, and you could’ve felt it. I mean, I guess you probably wouldn't have been able to, but.”  
  
He squatted to place his hands on her stomach, and glanced up at her.  
  
She beamed at him.  
  
His grin seemed to fade into a smile, and his eyes were soft, warm. He rose up to his feet slowly, and his hands dropped away from her stomach. “You look nice,” he said.  
  
The roughness in his voice made her neck warm.  
  
“I came from the luncheon,” she replied, and she realized he’d never seen her dressed up like this before: in heels, stockings, and a fancy cocktail dress, and with her make-up done up, and her hair pretty, and wearing little pearl drop earrings to match the pearls on her wrist.  
  
“The luncheon,” he repeated.  
  
She nodded. “For the City Horticulture Club. To plan their summer charity event.”  
  
“Right.” He cleared his throat after a beat, turning away from her to pull a beer from the fridge. He’d come from work, and she took him in surreptitiously, biting her lip at the way he looked in his dirty t-shirt, with his five o’clock shadow and his sweaty, wild curls.  
  
She didn’t usually get to see him like this these days; he washed up right after work.  
  
He opened his beer, and turned to face her.  
  
She looked away quickly, but she didn’t miss the way that he crossed his arms.  
  
“I talked to my advisor this morning,” she said, and she went to the fridge to get a snack. She needed something to do with her hands. “I told her about the baby. I think she choked on her tongue for a minute. But we started to talk about my maternity leave, and how that’ll work with classes, and stuff.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
She nodded. “It’s going to be tough, but I’ll figure it out.” She moved to grab a plate.  
  
She didn’t hear him come up behind her, didn’t know he was there until, suddenly, he was, and she sucked in a breath at the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. He crowded her against the counter, pressing his chest into her back, and his arms came up; he lay his hands flat on the cabinets to box her in.  
  
His breath grazed her cheek. “I’m curious, Princess. Do you know you’re looking at me like you’re ready to straddle me right here, right now, and have your way with me?”  
  
She breathed out, felt the excitement race up her spine, somersaulting from her stomach to her chest. “Do you have a problem with that?” she replied.  
  
His hands ran up her sides, and he cupped her breasts, squeezing. “Nope.”  
  
It stole her breath, and she covered his hands with hers, making him chuckle warmly in her ear; she let her eyes slide shit, and tilted her head back onto his shoulder, giving him access to trail hot, sucking kisses along her throat. He spun her in his arms suddenly to slant his mouth over hers.  
  
She kissed him, digging her fingers into his shoulders when his hands skimmed her ass.  
  
He hiked her up a moment later, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.  
  
She pushed her hands into his hair, dragging her lips across the stubble on his jaw while he walked them to the table, and his hands were everywhere suddenly, running up her thighs, carding through her hair, yanking the straps on her dress down until the top pooled at her waist. She dipped her hands under his waist to palm his ass, and he tore down her strapless bra.  
  
The stubble on his cheek scraped against her breast, and need pulsed between her legs when he bit her, sucking at the skin a moment later. But he couldn’t _do_ this, couldn’t draw it out. She ran her hands up his back, fisting her fingers in his hair to yank his head up. He kissed her roughly, and she rocked against the bulge in his jeans.  
  
“I don’t have a condom,” he told her.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” she breathed. She trusted him, and she _needed_ him.  
  
He broke away from her kiss to reach under her dress, to drag off her stockings with her underwear, and she fumbled with his belt buckle as soon as he straightened back up; she pushed his trousers past his hips, and his boxers, too, and she was desperate for him now, was dripping for him; she lay back on the table, pulling her knees up and spreading her legs for him.  
  
He cursed under his breath, grabbed at her thighs, and thrust into her.  
  
Then he was still, staring down at her with dark, heavy eyes.  
  
“Fuck, Clarke,” he panted.  
  
“Yes.” She nodded. “Do that. Fuck Clarke. Fuck me.”  
  
He started to pump into her, and she grabbed for his shoulders, pressing her fingers into the muscles in his arms while he muttered about how wet she was for him, while he fucked her, and his gaze swept over her breasts, watching them bounce with his thrusts.  
  
She couldn’t keep her eyes open, arching off the table. “This is better,” she gasped. She wanted to cry with the feeling.  
  
“What’s that, Princess?” he asked, and his fingers bruised her thighs.  
  
“Than my fingers, and my—” She cried out, and the back of her head slammed into the table. “—and my imagination. It’s better to have you for real.”  
  
He swore. “Have you imagined me, Clarke? Have you imagined _this_?”  
  
“I—” She bit down on her lip, and “ _there_ , Bellamy, yes, _yes_ —”  
  
He started to slam into her, and she unraveled suddenly, coming hard. The moment she clenched around him, he started to come, too. She blinked dazedly up at him after. He hadn’t taken off his shirt, and it was soaked in sweat now; sweat dripped from his hair, and dotted his forehead.  
  
She brushed her palm against his cheek, slipping her fingers into his wet, messy hair.  
  
“What’s that look?” she asked, trying to catch her breath.  
  
He grinned slowly at her. “If you wanted to fuck me, you could’ve said so a while ago.”  
  
She laughed, and tugged on his hair to get a kiss from him.  
  
They needed to get up, and clean off; they were in the _kitchen_ , spread across the table for everyone to see, and this in a house that people wandered into freely. They were asking to be walked in on. But Clarke was warm, and sated, and lazy, and she wanted to stay like that with him. Just for a moment.  
  
\---  
  
It was hard to keep her hands off him after that, although she didn't really try.  
  
They didn’t talk about what it meant.  
  
But there wasn’t a reason to talk when she was on her knees between his legs, or when he pushed her up against the wall of the shower, fucking her with his fingers. They didn't have to talk for him to realize how easy it was to work her up when he sucked hickeys onto her thighs and her stomach and her breasts, for her to learn that he loved it when she dug her nails into the dimples on his back, urging him on with needy whispers in his ear.

Two weeks, and she was _addicted_ to him.  
  
She assumed it wasn’t a secret.  
  
It couldn’t be. Miller would’ve noticed that she slept over every single night these days, and Bellamy hadn’t slept on the couch in a while. But, apparently, Miller didn’t see a reason to share this information with anyone, which was why Jasper decided not to knock, and got a show for his trouble.  
  
He pushed open the door, starting to ask Bellamy a question before—“Oh, my God!”  
  
“ _Jasper_!”  
  
He clapped a hand to his eyes, but it was too late for that: he’d seen Clarke on her back with her legs in the air, and Bellamy naked at the edge of the bed, thrusting into her. “I didn’t know!” he cried, turning on his heel, trying to leave, and running blindly into the dresser.  
  
“Would you get the fuck _out_?” Bellamy growled.  
  
“I’m—” He smacked into the wall, and Clarke stifled her laughter.  
  
Bellamy was livid, starting to pull away from Clarke, and she pictured it for a second: butt-naked, raging mad Bellamy, hauling Jasper from the room by the collar of his shirt, and tears sprang to her eyes from laughter. “No, no,” she said, grabbing Bellamy’s arm to tug him into a kiss. “He’s fine, Bell. He’s gone.”  
  
Jasper made it out the door. He couldn’t look Clarke in the eye for a week.  
  
Three weeks later, they learned the baby was a girl.  
  
Clarke started to cry, staring at the ultrasound. “It's a girl,” Bellamy whispered into her cheek, hugging her, and she clutched at his arm. “It's a girl.”  
  
She arrived at the house after school on Monday to find the place in chaos: boxes littered the porch, the hallway, and the kitchen; she passed Lincoln on his way down the stairs with a mattress, and followed the sound of a vacuum to Octavia's old, previously untouched bedroom. She found Jasper with the vacuum, and Monty on the floor next to him, trying to disassemble a rusty bed frame.  
  
Bellamy was kneeling at the window with a yellow tape measure.  
  
There was paint in the corner, and Clarke knew the moment she saw it was pink.  
  
She touched Bellamy on the shoulder, getting his attention. He stood. “We figured we'd clean it up tonight,” he explained. “Get it painted, and give it a few days to dry, then we'd buy the crib and the changing table and stuff on Saturday.”  
  
She nodded, and pulled him down for a kiss.  
  
It didn't occur to her until they were at Target on Saturday that she needed a nursery in her apartment.  
  
Bellamy loaded a Pack 'n' Play into their cart, and paused. “Should we get two?” He glanced at her. “Do you want one for your apartment?”  
  
"Oh. Um, yes. That's a good idea."  
  
He pulled a second off the shelf, heaving it into the cart.  
  
“I was—I hadn't thought about this a ton,” she started, “but I thought that after the baby's born, we could stay at your house for a while. Me and her. Just for those first eight weeks or so, you know, when she'll really need that constant attention, and it'll be good to have your help.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” He smiled.  
  
Octavia shouted at them from three aisles over about a super, _super_ cute safari mobile that they _needed_ to buy for her niece. Bellamy rolled his eyes at her, yelling that she thought they needed to buy her niece _every damn thing_ she saw, and _money doesn’t grow on trees, O!_  They started to argue three aisles apart.  
  
Clarke smiled, crossing Pack 'n' Play as well as "mobile for crib" off her list.  
  
Her stomach ballooned suddenly the first hot, muggy week in August.  
  
It was impossible to hide it now, and everyone in her program was stunned. She was congratulated repeatedly, and she grew used to the way that people's eyes slid to her automatically when she passed them, how they loved to touch her stomach, and to glance at her hand to check for a ring.  
  
It drove her crazy, but there wasn't a way to avoid it.  
  
Strangers at Kroger wanted to unload her cart for her at check out, and push her cart to her car for her. People stared at her stomach shamelessly on the street, in the elevator, _everywhere_ , smiling indulgently at her when she noticed their stare, and caught their eye.  
  
“I'm a spectacle,” she said.  
  
It didn't help that pregnancy made her sweat like a pig in the heat.  
  
She tilted her face into the fan that Octavia had put in front of the couch for her.  
  
“Do you want some scrambled eggs?” Miller asked.  
  
That was her favorite these days, and she ate her weight in it morning, noon, and night. But she wasn't hungry now, and Miller didn't know how to make them like Bellamy did. “I'm fine,” she said. She paused. “Actually—”  
  
Miller sighed, sitting up in his recliner. “I'll add butter like Bellamy does.”  
  
She grinned. “You’re the _best_.”  
  
The baby kicked that night.  
  
Clarke was sprawled across the couch with her feet in Bellamy's lap, and it wasn't a soft, strange flutter meant only for her; it was a _kick_. She sat up to grab for Bellamy's hand, yanking him towards her. His brow creased, and he opened his mouth, only for his eyes to widen. “Do you feel it?” she asked.  
  
He grinned, flattening his palms against her stomach.  
  
Octavia glanced at them, and— “Oh, my God!” She scrambled up from the floor while Clarke laughed, and Harper wanted to feel the baby, too, and it wasn’t long before everyone crowded in to touch the baby. “Kick for your aunt, Bunny!” Octavia prodded, talking loudly at Clarke’s stomach.  
  
Clarke laughed, and the smile was stuck on her face for hours after.  
  
Harper stayed on the couch next to her, and Bellamy ended up sitting on the ground by her legs with his arm around her waist, leaning his cheek against her belly. She toyed with his hair absently, scratching his scalp. They’d realized the baby had the hiccoughs.  
  
The _hiccoughs_. It was unbelievable, and it was _wonderful_.  
  
Octavia leaned in to hug Clarke before she left, giving her a kiss, and she whispered the words. “Bellamy’s got our granny's ring. If you want it, it’s yours.” She pulled away, leaving Clarke to gape at her when she flounced from the room with Lincoln at her heels.  
  
\---  
  
She picked up the phone when her father called. She couldn’t help it. She _missed_ him.  
  
He wanted her to come to dinner, and to bring Bellamy with her.  
  
“Do you want to meet him, or bully him?” she asked, suspicious, and her father sighed, promising that it wasn’t going to be like that, and he’d make sure that her mother behaved if Clarke would please, _please_ give them a chance to be her parents for a night.  
  
Her chest grew tight with guilt, and she gave in.  
  
She needed Bellamy to agree to it, though.  
  
“Did you really expect you’d never have to meet my family?” she asked.  
  
“I’m allowed to have dreams,” he replied. “Hey, I have an idea. How about I pass on dinner with your parents, and, instead, I’ll have dinner with your totally-in-South America, not-at-all imaginary friend, Raven? We can do it over Skype. I’ll make tacos.”  
  
She made a face at him.  
  
“One, Raven isn’t imaginary, and, two, no, that isn’t an option.” She paused. “I’ll make it up to you. Do this for me, shave, put on a nice shirt and tie, and have dinner with my parents, and I _promise_ that I’ll make it up to you. I’d take this deal while it’s on the table, because my next move is to play the _I’m pregnant with your child_ card.”  
  
He grumbled under his breath, and she knew she’d won.  
  
Honestly, it wasn’t like there’d ever really been a way she wouldn’t.  
  
It turned out that Bellamy cleaned up nicely; he looked younger when he was dressed up like this, clean-shaven, with his hair slicked back, and in a blue button-up shirt with a tie.  
  
She ran her hands along his shoulders, inspecting him.  
  
“I look good, right?” He grinned at her.  
  
She rolled her eyes, and leaned up on her heels to peck him on the lips.  
  
He was nervous, though, and he couldn't hide it when they arrived. He cleared his throat, fidgeting. She nudged his arm, and gave him a smile when he looked at her. His mouth quirked in a sad, nervous attempt to return it, and she reached for his hand before she rang the doorbell.  
  
Her father swung the door open immediately, beaming at her.  
  
She laughed at his excitement, and he pulled her into a hug. “Look at you!” he said, and Clarke flushed. She was big now, yes: big boobs, big stomach, big, lumbering legs to hold it all up.  
  
“This is Bellamy,” she introduced.  
  
Her father smiled, reaching for Bellamy's hand. “Jake Griffin.”  
  
It went well at first.  
  
Her father was friendly, talking to Bellamy about everything from the weather to Octavia to what baseball team he rooted for. Her mother was quieter, but she listened politely when Bellamy talked, laughed at a story about Octavia, and kept her husband's promise that she'd behave.  
  
Clarke should've known better than to believe it would last.  
  
Her mother started slowly, started small. “Tell me about your job, Bellamy,” she said, smiling. It was a perfectly simple, innocuous question. But it led to questions about money, and everything went to pieces from there. “Do you think you'll be able to support a baby on that?”  
  
“Mom,” Clarke hissed.  
  
It was too late.  
  
Her mother refused to back off, and her father tried to help, but he made it worse when he said that they'd be happy to provide for their grandchild. Clarke snapped at him that they didn't need his money, that they were adults, and they’d do this on their own.  
  
“If you were an adult, this wouldn't have happened to you.”  
  
Clarke glared at her mother. “Bellamy's got a good job, and I have money, too.”  
  
“This isn't about money,” her mother said. “I know you think you've got this handled, but you don't, and, Clarke, don't shake your head at me; I need you to hear me when I say this. I'm sure that Bellamy works very hard, and is very nice person, but he isn't going to be able to look after a baby, and you aren't in a position to either.”  
  
“That's it,” Clarke said, moving to her feet. “Let's go.”  
  
Bellamy started to push back his chair.  
  
“Clarke, stop.” Her father stared at her, and betrayal squeezed at her chest.  
  
She swallowed thickly. "What is that you want me to do?" she asked. Her glare cut to her mother. “If I've made such a huge, _awful_ mistake, what is it you suggest I do to fix it? Take the money you throw at me, and let you lecture at me, and talk down to Bellamy?”  
  
“No, sweetheart.” Her mother's chin trembled a little.  
  
“Then _what_?” she demanded.  
  
“We want you to give it up for adoption.”  
  
She hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't that.  
  
“I know you want children, but there'll be a time for that when you're done with school, and you're married, and you're _ready_.” Her eyes were soft suddenly, desperate. “There are a lot of really good parents who aren't able to have children on their own, Clarke, and they're ready for a baby.”  
  
“We're going to go,” Clarke whispered.  
  
“Clarke,” her mother said, pleading.  
  
“Thank you for dinner, Mom. It was nice to see you.”  
  
Her mother shook her head. “I’m not trying to be the villain, Clarke. I’m trying to stop my daughter from ruining her life.”  
  
Clarke didn't reply. She couldn't. She needed to get out, and her parents didn't put up a fight, letting her go.  
  
It was quiet in the car. “I'm sorry,” she said.  
  
He nodded, and it stayed quiet.  
  
She'd fought with her mother before. She'd walked out on dinner before, and dodged her calls before. But it'd never lasted more than a few months.  
  
This fight wasn't supposed to last more than a few months.  
  
Dinner tonight was supposed to make it right; instead, it made everything worse.  
  
They wanted her to give away her _baby_. Her _daughter_.  
  
Bellamy didn't say a word until he put the truck in park in front of his house.  
  
“Let me have her.”  
  
She glanced at him. “What?”  
  
“The baby,” he said, and he turned his gaze from the windshield to look at her. His jaw was locked, and she knew that look on his face, recognized the cold, hard expression from months ago. “If you're going to give her up, give her to me. I'll take her.”  
  
"No," she said, stunned. “Bellamy, no. I'm not going to give away my baby. Not to a stranger, and—and not to you. Not like that. We're going to raise her together.”  
  
He shook his head at her. “Do you really think it's going to work like that?”  
  
“Yes!” Didn’t he?  
  
“It's not," he said. "Right now, you're lonely, and you're bored, and it's fine for you to slum it with me.”  
  
She gaped at him. “Bellamy—”  
  
“But it isn't always going to be like that,” he continued. “You'll get over me, and my shitty little house, and you'll want out. What happens then? What happens when you're a doctor, and you meet a guy who's gone to some fancy school, and makes the money you make, and wants to adopt my daughter?”  
  
She stared at him, and anger rose up in her chest like dark, heavy smoke, filling her up. “Is that really what you think?” she asked. “That's really what I am to you? Some dumb, flighty rich girl who—who'd be that cruel, who'd get _bored_ with you, and take your daughter from you?”  
  
His jaw twitched. “I never called you dumb,” he said, and she hated him.  
  
She hated him, and that cold, hard look on his face, and she hated that her throat was clogged with a stupid, irrational need to cry when she looked at him.  
  
She fumbled with her seat belt, shoving open the door to his truck. Bellamy huffed at her. “Wait,” he said, starting to open the door on his side, but she ignored him. She wasn't going to wait, or look at him, or have a thing to do with him. “Hold on a second, Clarke,” he growled.  
  
He made it around to her side of the truck before she managed to slide herself out, but she smacked at his hands when he tried to help her.  
  
“I can get out of your fucking truck myself,” she snapped.  
  
“No, you can't.” He hooked his hands under her arms, hauling her from the truck.  
  
She shoved at his chest as soon as her feet touched the ground, and started for her car. The baby moved inside her. _I know, baby_ , she thought. _Me, too._  
  
“Where are you going?” Bellamy asked, irritated.  
  
“Home.”  
  
He let out a short, angry sigh. “Clarke. _Clarke_. Hey, stop.” He grabbed her arm.  
  
“Get off me,” she snarled, jerking from his grasp.  
  
“You shouldn't drive when you're upset.”  
  
She spun to face him. “Are you kidding me?” she cried. He stared at her, unwavering, and it made something in her _hurt_. “You can't—” She grit her teeth. “Tell me this, Bellamy. Do you even actually like me? I don’t mean do you like _fucking_ me, or do you feel obligated to be nice to me because you knocked me up. I mean, do you _like_ me? If I weren’t pregnant, would you want to be with me?”  
  
He stared at her. “If you weren’t pregnant, you would’ve forgotten about me a long time ago.”  
  
She was going to cry. “Fuck you.”  
  
“You did. That’s why we’re in this mess, Princess.”  
  
She nodded. “Right.” She curled her hands until her nails bit into her palms. “I'm going to go now. I think I need to be a bored, lonely rich girl by myself for a little while.”  
  
He didn't stop her this time.  
  
She made it three streets away before she had to pull over to cry on the side of the road.  
  
\---  
  
It took less than a day for her phone to blow up with texts from Octavia, asking where she was. Monty, Jasper, and Harper were on her, too. Clarke texted that she was busy, that she was tired, and when they asked why she wasn’t at the house, she ignored them.  
  
What was she supposed to say? She couldn’t deal with this.  
  
Octavia didn’t give up.  
  
_What did he do?_  
  
Once it was clear that Clarke wasn’t going to answer her texts, Octavia started to call. Guilt surged in Clarke for a minute, but it turned to mean, bitter anger when Octavia left a voicemail that told Clarke not to shut her out, that they were friends, and Octavia was worried. That was the thing: they _weren’t_ friends, were they? Clarke was an incubator to Octavia, and she always had been.  
  
She got off from school for a week between semesters, and she holed up in her apartment.  
  
She hated that Bellamy was right when he called her lonely. She was.  
  
“But I’ve got you,” she said, rubbing her fingers against the bulge that protruded from her tummy. “We should give you a name. What should it be? What do you like?”  
  
How could her parents have thought she’d give up her baby?  
  
How could _Bellamy_ have thought that?

She missed him, and that made it worse. She missed talking to him, and how he'd tease her. She missed the faces he made when he saw that she'd stocked his kitchen with artisan cheeses, Greek yogurt, and organic peanut butter. She missed the warmth of him next to her in bed at night, missed knocking elbows with him in the morning when they'd brush their teeth together, and he'd shave while she did her make-up. She watched the purple red hickeys that dappled her skin disappear, and he wasn't there to give her new ones.

She hated him, and she missed him.

Her phone went off, and Clarke glared at it. But it wasn’t Octavia, or her mother. It was a number she didn’t know. She didn’t pick up, but whoever it was refused to accept that, calling repeatedly until Clarke was forced to pick up. “Who is this?” she asked, annoyed.  
  
“ _I missed you, too, Griffin._ ”  
  
Clarke screamed.  
  
Raven laughed, and it turned out that she was at the airport, and she needed a ride. Clarke started to cry, and she didn’t know why, but it didn’t matter: she cried with relief, and with excitement, and with the warm, giddy feeling that bubbled up in her chest. She cried, and she laughed tearfully at herself when Raven laughed, too, telling her to get her butt in gear, and come to the airport.  
  
There was exasperation in her voice, but there was fondness, too.  
  
She sounded like Raven, and Raven was back.  
  
Clarke might’ve sped a little on her way to the airport.  
  
Raven was on a bench at arrivals, propping her feet up on her backpack. Clarke grinned at the sight, and Raven seemed to feel her gaze, looking up. She started to grin slowly, and shook her head at Clarke while she moved to her feet. Clarke waddled over to her as fast as possible. “You are _pregnant_ ,” Raven said, and Clarke hugged her tight.  
  
“You knew that,” Clarke replied, pressing her cheek to Raven’s.  
  
“I did,” Raven said. “I got your e-mails. But, _shit_ , I almost didn’t really believe it!” She pulled away to look at Clarke. “I’m sorry I went off the grid for a while there,” she continued. “Some jackass stole my stuff at a hostel in Chile. My phone, my tablet, my _underwear_.”  
  
“Oh, gosh, good,” Clarke said.  
  
Raven laughed. “How’s that good?” she asked, amused.  
  
“I didn’t know what happened when you didn’t reply to my e-mails!” Clarke exclaimed. “I couldn’t decide which was more unrealistic: that you’d disowned me for my promiscuity, or that you’d been mauled by some giant, scary South American animal.”  
  
Raven snorted, pulling Clarke into another tight hug. “God, I missed you.”  
  
“I missed you, too,” Clarke whispered. “You have no idea how much.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Raven said. “I’m not going anywhere again any time soon. It’s clear you need me. I leave you on your own for one measly year, and you go and get yourself knocked up.” This time when she pulled away, her gaze fell to Clarke’s giant stomach.  
  
“It doesn’t take that long to get knocked up,” Clarke said. “I’d know. I’m knocked up.”  
  
Raven grinned. “Tell me about the guy. What’s his deal?”  
  
Clarke bit her lip. “It’s complicated.”  
  
“Well, that’s not good,” Raven said, and Clarke nodded. _Not good_ was one way to put it. But Raven started to smile. “Come on.” She heaved her backpack over her shoulder, hooking an arm through Clarke’s. “Sounds like we’ve got a lot to catch up on. Start at the bar.”  
  
Raven wanted to shower desperately, but she insisted that Clarke sit on the toilet while she was in the bath, and continue to give her the details on everything she’d missed.  
  
They ordered Chinese for dinner.  
  
“He _told_ you that?” Raven said. “He actually said that he didn’t like you, and he was nice to you because you were pregnant, and that was it?” She raised an eyebrow at Clarke.  
  
Clarke slurped up a noodle. “Basically.”  
  
“Un-uh. That wasn’t my question. I asked if he _told_ you that, not if you inferred it.”  
  
“He implied it,” Clarke said.  
  
“Hmm,” Raven replied, and Clarke frowned.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“No. What was that?”  
  
Raven sighed. “You know that he didn’t mean it, right? You have to know that.”  
  
“He meant it, Raven. You weren’t there.”  
  
“You’re right, I wasn’t.” Raven smiled slyly at her. “But I know that guy is in love with you.”  
  
Clarke scoffed. “How can you possibly know that?”  
  
“I know because you _told_ me, Clarke,” Raven said. “There isn’t anybody who’d listen to the story you told me just now, and think that boy was anything other than totally, stupidly in love with you. Do you know why he said that shit to you? Because _look_ at you, Clarke. You’re this gorgeous, smart girl who’s got everything going for you, and he feels like he’s got _nothing_ going for him, and he’s being a dumb boy about it.”  
  
Clarke stared at her. “I feel like I should remind you that you’ve never actually met him.”  
  
“Whatever. Doesn’t mean I’m not right,” Raven replied, shrugging. “Pass me that eggroll.”  
  
\---  
  
She hadn’t spoken to Bellamy in nearly a month when he texted her on a Monday.  
  
_Can you at least tell me how you are?_  
  
She seethed at the fact that he’d managed to take a tone with her in a text. But after she stewed on it for a day, she replied. She wasn’t going to be cruel to him. _I’m fine. So is Baby. Tell Octavia to stop calling me._  
  
She wanted to throw her phone against the wall when she saw his response. _No_.  
  
It was in class that Friday that her stomach started to cramp.  
  
She tried not to be concerned, only to feel a slickness between her thighs.  
  
She went to the bathroom to see what it was, coaching herself not to panic yet. Her heart stopped when she saw the bright red blood that soaked her underwear, dribbling down her thighs, and her stomach twinged in awful, wrenching pain. She yanked her underwear back up with shaky hands. _No, no, please, God, no!_ This couldn’t happen.  
  
She couldn’t lose this baby.  
  
She texted Bellamy while she stumbled from the bathroom.  
  
_Something’s wrong. Come to hospital._  
  
The hospital was across the street from her school, and Clarke was there within minutes, trying desperately not to cry while she explained to the nurse how her stomach began to cramp, and she’d started to bleed, and “I’m eight months now, they can—they can deliver her, right, and save her?” The sob caught in her throat.  
  
She was ushered into a room to be examined.  
  
The hour that followed was the scariest in her life. They told her that she needed to relax, that it was the best possible thing to do for her baby at this moment, but it wasn’t that easy. The doctor thought it was a placental abruption, and she wanted to see what the ultrasound revealed, and “try to relax for your baby, Clarke,” she said, smiling at Clarke.  
  
How could she _smile_ right now?  
  
Clarke heard the shouts when they were in the middle of the ultrasound.  
  
She recognized his voice, and she looked at the technician, but she didn’t have to say a word; the technician understood. “The screaming man belongs to you, doesn’t he?”  
  
“Yes. Can he—?”  
  
Bellamy answered that question for her, storming into the room. “Clarke!”  
  
She couldn’t help it: she burst into tears, and reached out her arms for him. He hugged her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “They think it’s a placental abruption,” she told him. “I’m supposed to relax, but I can’t.”  
  
“You can,” he said, pushing the hair from her face. “You relax, and I’ll panic for us both.”  
  
She laughed a little, and he squeezed her hand.  
  
It turned out that it _was_ a placental abruption, but it was partial, which meant they weren’t going to deliver the baby yet. Instead, Clarke was going to go on bed rest until the baby was a just a little bigger, just a little closer to term, and it was safer.  
  
Two hours later, Clarke was propped up in Bellamy’s bed.  
  
Octavia hovered, asking Clarke what she needed, overseeing Miller’s attempt to hook up a TV in the bedroom, texting Monty to get this from the store, and this, and, also, this. “Do you want books to read?” Octavia asked. “Should I make Monty go to the library? What do you like to read?”  
  
Clarke smiled. “I’m okay for now.”  
  
“Okay. Harper texted; she’s going to get you a milkshake from Sonic. What flavor?”  
  
There was a hesitant, muffled “ _hello_?” shouted from below.  
  
“We’re upstairs!” Octavia called.  
  
Clarke didn’t know who Octavia expected it to be, but it was Raven, breathless, and her eyes found Clarke immediately. “Hey!” She relaxed visibly with relief, looking Clarke over. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. It took me forever to get away from my gran after I got your text.” She climbed onto the bed next to Clarke. “How are you?”  
  
“Um.” Octavia frowned. “Who the _fuck_ are you?”  
  
“Raven. Who the fuck are _you_?”  
  
Octavia blinked. “You’re real,” she said, and Clarke huffed.  
  
“There’s no need to sound that surprised,” she grumbled.  
  
Raven chuckled, only to notice Bellamy a moment later, and her eyes walked over him. She nodded slowly. “Nice. Very nice.” She slumped against the pillows beside Clarke. “Good job.”  
  
Bellamy grinned.  
  
“What about magazines?” Octavia asked suddenly. “Do you want magazines? I’ll have Monty pick you some up.”  
  
For the rest of the day, her friends continued to parade through the room, bringing Clarke things, hugging her, telling her they’d missed her, asking what they could do for her, doing what Octavia told them to. It was sweet, but Clarke started to nod off around seven, and Bellamy forced everybody to leave the room at last.  
  
“If you need anything, just shout,” he told Clarke, standing at the door. “Or text.” He scratched at his neck. “Unless you want me to stay?” he asked.  
  
The look on his face made sweet, sudden affection surge through her. She nodded. “Sure.”  
  
He shut the door, returning to his seat in the chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Good,” she said. “Better.”  
  
He smiled a little. Her eyes were heavy, but there was something in his face, and it made her hold off. She knew there was more he wanted to say. She waited, watched him swallow. “That stuff I said to you,” he started. “I’m sorry. It was—” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean it.”  
  
“It’s okay. It’s not like you were wrong about everything.”  
  
His brow started to crease. “Clarke—”  
  
“I was lonely,” she said, rueful. “You were right. To be honest, I think I’ve always been.”  
  
He stared at her, and she dropped her gaze to her stomach, running her hands over it.  
  
“I love my parents, but I haven’t really gotten along with them in years, and I’ve always had friends, but, mostly, they’ve always been situational, you know? Like in middle school, my best friend was this girl at the hospital, Lilly. I was there a lot because my mother worked there, and she was there because, well, she was sick. We became friends, and I _adored_ her. But she got better, and we grew older, and—and that was it.”  
  
She looked at him, but he was quiet.  
  
She continued. “Growing up, I think I had one real, through thick-and-thin friend. Wells. Our mothers were roommates in college, and—and he was always just . . . _there_.” She paused. “He was in love with me. I loved him, too, but not like that. Not the way he wanted me to. He was such a good guy, though, that it didn’t matter. He was happy to be my friend.” She smiled sadly.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
It took her a moment to start. “He was supposed to meet me at the library,” she said, and it came out softer than it was supposed to. “But he didn’t. I was mad. I mean, he’d stood me up. I called him, but he didn’t pick up. I went to my dorm, figured I’d see him in the morning, and I figured he’d have some really good excuse that I’d have to accept. Like that he’d saved a kitten from a tree, or something.” Her eyes were wet. “It came on the radio when I was in the shower. Breaking news. Some crazy woman had shot the mayor’s son.”  
  
“Wells Jaha,” Bellamy said, understanding.  
  
Clarke nodded. “I was shaving my legs in the shower when I learned that my best friend was dead, and after I’d spent the day thinking he’d stood me up, and being annoyed at him.” She looked down for a minute, wiping at her eyes.  
  
Bellamy reached out to touch her knee.  
  
She managed a smile. “It’s okay. It was nearly four years ago.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, the only other real friend I’ve ever had is Raven. She was my only college friend that really stuck, but she took off for South America last summer, and I guess, as pathetic as this sounds, I was lost without her. I was—I _was_ lonely. I was lonely, and I got pregnant, and—and you introduced me to this whole big crazy family that seemed to accept me without question, and I wanted to have that. To have _people_.”  
  
“You do,” Bellamy said. “We _are_ your people.”  
  
“You don’t have to be,” she told him. “I’ll be okay. I’ve got Raven back, and—and I’ve got our baby. I’m okay, Bellamy. You don’t have to worry about me.”  
  
He stared at her.  
  
“There is a lot we have to figure out,” she went on. “I know you don’t like to talk about money, but we have to, and you have to—you have to let me spend my money sometimes. I have plenty. I’m set for _life_ with the money my grandmother left me when she died. I’m not saying you don’t have money, but—Bellamy, I tried to pay for my own damn Pack ‘n’ Play, and you wouldn’t let me! I get that you want to take care of her, but, you know, she’s my baby, too. I have just as much right to take care of her as you do.”  
  
“You’re right,” he said.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Really? That’s it? You aren’t going to fight me on this?”  
  
“Nope.” His lips turned up slightly, hinting at a smile. But his smile faded a moment later, and he got this look on his face; it was open, and a little sad, and it made him look impossibly younger, made Clarke suddenly desperate to bring his smile back. “I just—I don’t want you to regret that it was me you got stuck with.”  
  
“Never,” she said softly. “ _Never_ , Bellamy. I mean it.”  
  
His eyes seemed to search her face, and she hoped he could see how much she meant it. He nodded. “What are we going to do when she’s born?" He cleared his throat. "Do you want to stay here?”  
  
“What do you want?” she asked.  
  
“I want you to stay here.” He paused. “Permanently. I want you to move in.”  
  
Her eyes widened. “Bellamy—”  
  
“I want _you_ ,” he said. “It’s not about the baby, Clarke. It’s about you. I want you.”  
  
She stared at him, couldn’t take her eyes _off_ him.  
  
“I’d have never had the balls to go after you if you hadn’t gotten pregnant,” he said, “but I _do_ like you." His gaze didn't waver, burning into her. "I like you, and I want to do this for real.”

The air seemed to still around them; the breath stopped in Clarke's lungs.

Tears beaded in her eyes, and she nodded.

She reached for him, and he moved onto the bed, into her arms. She hugged him, and she nodded furiously, laughing a little tearfully when he turned his face slightly to kiss her. It was a soft, sweet kiss, and she cupped his face in her hands to deepen it, brushing her thumbs against his cheeks.  
  
“We’ve got one more thing to talk about,” he said. His lips tickled hers with the words.  
  
“What’s that?” she asked, letting her hands fall to his shoulders.  
  
He leaned his forehead against hers, and she felt his smile more than saw it. “Names.”  
  
\---  
  
The baby was born two days after the leaves on the tree in Bellamy’s yard turned orange. She was six pounds, fourteen ounces, had thin dark hair on her head, gray eyes, and a little pointed ear that made her look like a little pink, pudgy elf. She was healthy. She was perfect.  
  
In the end, it didn’t take them long to pick a name.  
  
“Hi, Aunt Octavia,” Clarke said, putting her into Octavia’s arms. “I’m your niece, Julia. Julia Raven Blake, and I love you, Aunt Octavia.”  
  
Octavia started to cry. Jasper took a picture with his phone. It turned out Julia wasn’t in the picture; it was Octavia’s tears that Jasper wanted to put on Facebook.  
  
The group stayed with them late into the night.  
  
In the quiet after they left at last, Clarke looked at Julia in her little plastic box by the bed, and she couldn’t believe it. That she was real, and she was theirs.  
  
Clarke tucked her hand under her cheek, turning to face Bellamy. He smiled tiredly at her, and she thought about that slow, slow grin she’d fallen for. “Do you know why I was at the bar that night?” she asked.  
  
He looked slightly amused. “Why?”  
  
“I was at this big, fancy party with my parents, and the dean of my school was there. Dr. Replogol. She started to praise me to my parents, saying how she’d known the moment she saw an application with my name on it that I was going to be a star in the program. How she’d known she didn’t have to bother to read the application, knowing like she did that Abby’s daughter was sure to be a genius.” She paused.  
  
“I think I might’ve missed the point,” Bellamy said, raising an eyebrow at her.  
  
“I guess it wasn’t really a big deal, but it felt like it at the time.”  
  
He seemed to soften, and she knew he understood.  
  
“I didn’t want to be my mother’s daughter for a night,” she said. “I wanted to escape, and I did. I escaped into a world where you existed.” She smiled. “I think I’m going to stay.”  
  
“I have news for you, Princess. I’m not going to let you leave.”  
  
From her box, Julia made a strange, squeaky grunting noise, and Clarke smiled. “Good.”  
  
Bellamy sang to Julia that very first night in the hospital, and Clarke listened to his low, rough voice, watched him with her, and she thought this must be what it felt like, falling in love for real. Slow and warm and sweet until it filled you up, leaving you breathless, leaving you certain. Inevitable, and exhilarating. Good, and right, and _final_. The way it was supposed to be.  
  
Her parents came to see the baby at Bellamy’s that Sunday.  
  
Her father brought Clarke flowers, and her mother brought a pink stuffed bear for Julia, and Clarke knew better than to expect an apology from them.  
  
It didn’t matter. She’d let them have this one.  
  
After all, they were going to have to listen to gossip about their daughter for _years_. How she’d gotten herself knocked up, had the baby out of wedlock. How she’d ended up on the east end of town with the father, and she wasn’t even married to the man. _Poor girl._  
  
Julia was five months old when Octavia re-started her campaign to change the last of that.  
  
Clarke found the ring when she snapped open the case she kept her sunglasses in.  
  
It was yellow gold with a small, solitary diamond, and Clarke knew immediately that it was Granny’s ring. There was a green sticky note folded up next to it, and written in Octavia’s messy chicken scrawl was a suggestion: _Just put it on. What’s he going to do? Say no?_  
  
She decided to pretend she hadn’t found it, knowing it’d drive Octavia crazy fast.  
   
But it wasn’t a week before she slipped it on.  
  
It was late, and Clarke sat in the bed with Julia at her breast, and Bellamy passed out on the pillow next to her. She knew it was silly, but she wanted to see what it looked like.  
  
She knew it was too much, too soon.  
  
That everything between them was new, and fragile. She knew, too, that she was a slob, and she liked to spend money in a way that drove Bellamy up a wall, and he was grouchy, and neater than was natural, and didn’t seem to know how to function unless he was worried about someone, and annoyed that nobody was as worried as he was.  
  
The ring fit, though.  
  
She’d have to tell Octavia that, and see how purple she’d make Octavia turn when she insisted that, nonetheless, she didn’t want to get married yet.  
  
Julia yawned at her.  
  
“What do you think, baby?” Clarke whispered, showing her the ring.  
  
She blinked sleepily in response. Her eyes seemed to have settled on a blue that matched Clarke’s. Clarke loved it. She nosed Julia’s cheek, and Julia sighed a sweet baby sigh, leaning her head against Clarke’s cheek. Clarke slipped off the ring, and nudged Bellamy with her foot.  
  
His response was to grunt at her.  
  
“Julia’s fussy,” she said. “She needs you to sing to her.”  
  
He grumbled into the pillow.  
  
She kicked him, and he turned his head. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, but that was good. If he did, he’d see that Julia was fine, and it was Clarke who wanted to be sung to.  
  
“ _Julia, Julia, ocean child, calls me, / So I sing a song of love, Julia_.”  
  
She closed her eyes, cuddling Julia to her chest. _Not yet, Octavia_ , she thought. Not _yet_.  
  
**Fin.**

\---

 _Oh, I want you now,_  
_So please don't let me down._  
_Oh, just shut your mouth,_  
_And know that you are everything to me._


End file.
